


After the Flood

by karavan



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Bro is in prison (drugs) and Dave lives with Dirk, Codependency, Complicated Relationships, Dave & Dirk & Bro are all brothers, Dirk Strider and Dave's Bro Aren't the Same Person, Family Issues, Friendship, Humanstuck, M/M, On Hiatus, Racism, Starting Over, Toxic Masculinity, enemies to friends to i don't know yet, strong warning for sexist/racist/homophobic/ableist language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-01-04 01:22:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,083
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21189203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karavan/pseuds/karavan
Summary: When Bro is handed an eight-year prison term, Dave finds himself adjusting to a whole new life.Bro might be away but he's never really gone, and Dave soon learns that letting go is a slow process.





	1. Chapter 1

The one available seat on the bus is the last one you want to sit in.

You give it one last frantic sweep, praying for literally any other spot to materialize out of thin air, but it’s like everyone knows what you’re thinking.

A boy a couple rows back from the driver swings his legs up across the seat, turning away from you as he puts in his earbuds. A girl in a tie-died t-shirt shakes her head and pats the backpack beside her, as if to say, ‘sorry, occupied.’

Someone towards the back shouts for you to sit your ass down, and a few people snigger. The bus starts moving and you stumble forward, nearly tripping and falling in some dude’s lap. He scowls at you. You keep your mouth shut, because he’s twice your size.

You guess you no longer have a choice. You shuffle towards the back of the bus, trying to ignore the way the goofy kid with glasses and crooked front teeth is waving you on over to him like you’re old friends or something.

As soon as you sit down, he pounces. You’d seen it coming the minute he laid eyes on you, which is why you’d been so keen to avoid this. Now you’re stuck sitting next to the special kid for the next thirty minutes and he clearly wants to chat.

“Hi!”

_God_. He’s practically vibrating with enthusiasm.

You shift uncomfortably and stuff your backpack in between you, offering him a weak ‘sup’ nod. He doesn’t take the hint. Of course he doesn’t take the fucking hint. You’re suddenly envious of earbud boy up the front there. You know better than to leave your headphones at home, especially when you know you’re taking public transport.

“I’m John. What’s your name?”

You ignore that; pretend to look somewhere, anywhere, else. Maybe if you’re just an outright dick to him he’ll give up and leave you alone.

No such luck.

“So. Bus kinda sucks, right?” he says with a little laugh.

You shrug.

“First time?”

“Yeah,” you mumble. You squish yourself into the armrest, trying to get as much distance between you and John as you can.

He doesn’t even notice.

“I get my license in a few months,” he offers, and you’re not sure why you resist telling him no one asked. “S’gonna be so awesome. Hey, are you learning to drive yet?”

You shake your head. Bro was going to teach you. He’d mentioned it a few times, in one of his better moods. He’d teach you to drive stick when you turned sixteen – because you’re not a real man unless you can drive stick – and maybe, once you’d got a job somewhere, you’d save up enough to buy your own car.

Now you’re not sure you’ll ever learn to drive; because Dirk doesn’t, and you don’t know any other adults. You’re not even sure he counts as one anyway.

You stare past John’s shoulder and out the window. You don't think you’ll ever get used to how _green_ everything is here. Pearland is so unlike the thick of the city that parts of it feel almost rural to you.

You can feel John’s eyes on you. When you look at him again, he's smiling at you.

“Hey, I really like your shirt.”

You look down at it, pulling at the hem. “Oh. Thanks, I guess.”

“Your shoes, too.”

You shift your feet so that they’re partially tucked under the seat. “Thanks. They’re just Chucks, though.” You can’t figure out why this dude is making such an effort to kiss your ass. You hope he’s just a goober and isn’t actually hitting on you or anything.

You check the time on your phone. With John sitting next to you, it's moving at glacial speed. It’s somehow even worse, more awkward, now that he’s not talking to you.

“Hey, um, I like your shirt too.”

John cracks a smile that reminds you of sunlight peeking through venetian blinds. You wonder if he smiles at everyone like that. You hope he does.

“Thanks. It’s like, the best movie ever, right?”

“Uh...” You can’t even play along. Ghostbusters is lame as hell.

John laughs. “Tell me you’ve seen it.”

“Yeah, a few times.” It’s a bit of an understatement. When you were little, Bro had dumped a box of old VHS tapes on you to keep you occupied, mostly movies from the 80’s and 90’s. You’d watched them all so many times you’d burned the player out. You never want to see Ghostbusters, or Cocoon, ever again.

“What kind of movies do you like? No, wait, let me guess.”

You're curious. And so you let him guess.

He looks you up and down. “Hm. You seem like the kind of guy who’s into all those long, boring arthouse movies about some tortured male protagonist and a pretty, quirky girl with bangs and a tragic past who helps him learn to appreciate life. And they somehow wind up with heaps of awards and everyone saying they’re great but they’re actually super lame and cringey.”

You stare at him, your mouth slightly open, wondering how he managed to call you out like that. It’s possible you underestimated him.

He peers at you expectantly. “So? How’d I do?”

He half-nailed it. Those are the types of movies you say you like. You actually love anything Adam Sandler does – ironically, of course. So you tell him that and he bursts out laughing.

“Okay, wow. I did not peg you as a Sandler fan, like at all. That’s cool, though. I’ve got The Wedding Singer and 50 First Dates on blu-ray.” Damn. Those are like, the two best ones. It’s possible John is actually cool.

You catch yourself laughing when he does. It feels weird, like you shouldn’t be doing it. You haven’t had a good reason to laugh in a while now. Idly, you wonder if it looks weird on you for lack of practice, like you’re trying too hard.

When there’s a lull in conversation, you say, “You don’t sound like you’re from Texas.”

John grins. You’re beginning to think that’s his default facial expression. “Oh, yeah, I’m not. We’re from Washington, originally. Me and my dad. He works in finance and they transferred him out here. He didn’t want to come at first but it was like, a lot of money. Crazy money. He likes it now, though. It’s not as grey out here.”

“Oh. Cool.”

“Yeah. What about you?”

“What about me?” Trepidation niggles at you, same way it always does when people ask questions. Questions are awkward when they have awkward answers.

“Where are you from?”

“Texas.” That much had to be obvious. Your accent isn’t quite as loose and thick as Bro’s but it’s there, and more apparent when your guard is down.

“No kidding. Whereabouts?”

“Houston, born and raised.”

“Oh well that’s cool. It’s practically next door.”

It is. It’s close. Really close. And yet you’ve never felt so far away.

“Mm-hm.”

“So what do your parents do?” And there it is.

You still don’t know how to answer this in a way that won’t embarrass you. You can’t tell him the man who raised you – the ex-drug-dealer – is now a professional inmate for the next six to eight. And Dirk is... You don’t even know what Dirk does. All you know is that he builds things, and works on the computer a lot. His skin is perpetually smudged and his room always smells like WD-40.

Eventually, you arrive at: “It’s complicated.”

“Oh. Like, their jobs?”

“No. I mean the – my – situation. It’s...complicated.”

“Oh, well that’s okay.” John casually waves his hand. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

“Thanks,” you say, and genuinely mean it. “And it’s Dave, by the way.”

“Huh?”

You scratch at your jeans. “My name. It’s Dave.”

* * *

When you step off the bus, you’re prepared for John to quickly abandon you. In the thirty minutes you’ve known him, you've learned he’s actually a pretty cool guy. He’d made your first bus trip slightly less torturous; you know he doesn’t owe you anything now.

You figure a guy like John must be pretty popular, with tons of friends. Enough friends that he doesn’t need to waste his time on the cagey new kid.

But he doesn’t abandon you.

He stays by your side like the two of you are magnetized, talking your ear off while you sign all the necessary forms up at the front office. He goes over your time-table with you – pointing out which classes you share – and shows you where the cafeteria is.

When it’s time for your first class – and you’re actually disappointed it’s not one you share with him – he waits with you by the door and, when the bell rings, tells you it’s gonna be fine.

And it is. At lunch he makes an effort to find you and drag you over his table. You get to bypass all the ‘oh, fuck, where do I sit and not look like a loser?’ melodrama and you’re so grateful for John today you’re actually thinking words like ‘blessing’ and ‘lord’.

You climb into the seat opposite John and set your tray down. The spaghetti looks gross and kind of crusty but you’re going to eat it all regardless. Dirk is almost as shit as Bro at making sure there’s enough food in the kitchen, even if he makes up for it by buying you a lot of take-out. You know it’s not his fault he can’t cook. One time, he’d told you he’d spent his childhood in seventeen different foster homes. You guess none of them ever bothered to teach him to cook for himself.

You glance over and make eye-contact with a girl who has dog-ears pinned in her long, thick hair. She smiles at you and you nearly drop your fork, because you’ve never actually seen a furry in real life. A preppy-looking girl with short platinum hair and dark lipstick catches your eye next, but you glance away when you don’t like the way she looks at you; like she’s sizing you up, trying to figure you out or something.

You look around. This can’t be the cool table.

“Guys, this is Dave,” John says casually, through a mouthful of food. “Dave, this is Jade—” he points at Furry Girl— “and Rose.”

They both say hi and you give a small wave.

“So,” Rose says, leaning forward and narrowing her eyes, “do you _always_ wear sunglasses inside?”

You know straight away that she’s basically saying you look like a douche but you just shrug. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

“Interesting. How did you two meet, John?”

“Bus,” John says, chewing. “I liked his shirt.”

“Of course you did,” Rose says, and if John finds her tone condescending he doesn’t show it. You guess they’re just those kind of friends.

Rose and Jade go back to talking to each other, and you and John fall into comfortable, occupied silence. You don’t look up from your food until you hear someone cussing under his breath and a tray slams down next to you.

“_Carajo_. How hard is it to cook pasta? How do you even fuck up spaghetti? That’s like, some entry-level shit. Like making toast. Or boiling an egg. This school is going to fucking hell, I swear to god.”

You glance to your left to find some skinny kid with messy dark hair and big grey eyes sitting next to you. With the dark circles under his eyes and his wrinkled t-shirt, he looks like he woke up on the wrong side of the bed. You shift away without thinking.

“S’not so bad,” John says. His plate is nearly clean.

The moody kid picks up his fork and begins eating. “You think everything’s good,” he mutters, stabbing a thick clump of congealed noodles. “You’re practically the real-life Olaf.”

“Yeah,” John concedes, grinning across the table at him, “but Karkat, you kind of just admitted you like Frozen.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“What? They’ve got some really nice Anna and Elsa sheet sets on sale at the Walmart; you should go check it out later. No need to be embarrassed – that soundtrack’s killer.”

“_Whatever_.”

You look at Karkat. Then look at him some more. You _know_ you know him from somewhere but you’re struggling to place it. Before you can ask, he notices you staring and glowers back.

“What the hell are you looking at?”

“Oh, sorry. Dave, Karkat. Karkat, Dave,” John interjects. Karkat ignores him.

You can tell by the subtle shift in his expression that it clicks for him at the same moment it does for you.

The prison. You’ve seen him at the prison.

Before you can say a word he picks up his tray, gets to his feet and walks away. You stare after him until he disappears into the crowd.

“Okay,” you say after a while. “Something I said?”

“Don’t worry about him,” John says. “He’s just kinda rude. Like don’t take it personal or anything ‘cause he’s like that with everyone. Good dude, though. Sometimes.”

“Sure.”

John drags his iPad from his bag and you spend the rest of your lunch break taking turns playing Mario Kart. Karkat doesn’t come back to the table.

* * *

You sit with John again on the bus ride home. He chats to you some more about his family – his dad, his nanna; even his cat – and avoids asking questions about yours. When it starts getting too rowdy – there’s a group of kids at the back of the bus planning a party for this coming Saturday; apparently it’s gonna be a rager – John pulls up an episode of Futurama on his iPad and offers you an earbud. 

When you’re about five minutes away from home, you have to ask. You take out the earbud and give it back to him.

“Hey, can I ask you something?”

John turns to face you, gives you his full attention. “Sure.”

“Why were you so nice to me today?”

That makes him huff a laugh. “What’s wrong with being nice?”

“Nothing,” you answer quickly, “it’s just...most people aren’t. You know? When I got up today I never thought I’d actually—”

“Make a friend?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

_Friend_. You’ve never really had friends. None that exist in the real world, anyway. You always assumed you’re the kind of person it’s impossible to be friends with. But this is the most you’ve actually talked to another person in...forever. With John, talking – sharing space – just feels normal, easy.

“If you’re asking why I talked to you, I dunno,” John says. “I guess when I saw you standing there, there was something about you.” He gives a cheerful shrug and throws up his hands. “Like I just knew we were supposed to be friends or something.”

_Gay_, you think, before you can think of anything nicer.

You settle for an actual smile – and it still feels weird, like you’re stretching your face out wrong; like if you looked in a mirror you’d scare yourself – and John beams back. You can only describe it as beaming because when he smiles like that – with his whole face, even his eyes – it reminds you of standing under the sun.

“Hey, you got Pesterchum?” John asks as the bus nears your stop.

“Yeah, obviously.”

“Quick, give me your phone so I can add my handle.”

You dig your phone from your pocket and unlock the screen, then hurry to pass it to him. He bites his lip as he opens up the app and types in his details.

“Message me later,” he says, passing your phone back as the bus slows to a stop.

You don’t have time to answer, but when you step outside, John’s waving at you from the window. You slowly wave back.

* * *

You wish Dirk wasn’t home so much.

You know he works from home, so that’s kind of unfair, but having to avoid him is worse. You’re always so guilty about it, because it’s not his fault and you don’t hate him.

He’s the entire reason you’re not in foster care right now, halfway across the country. He’s the reason you’re still able to see Bro. He’s only nineteen and yet he signed on to be your permanent babysitter for the next three years. You owe him everything, and you’ll never forget that.

But every interaction with him leaves you feeling drained, tinged with an inescapable sense of _wrongness_. When you’re in the same room with him it’s like two puzzle pieces that should fit together but don’t. Two people who look eerily like family and yet are total strangers.

Sometimes you wonder if it feels so bad because he’s family – because something in you recognizes him. Because you feel like you should know him but you don’t.

You spend most of your time camping out in your room, memorizing the details of the unfamiliar ceiling. When it’s time to eat he’ll call for you to come out, and you might sit with him until you can’t stand it anymore. You’ve wasted a fuckload of food over the last couple of months, pretending you’re not hungry when your skin is crawling, just to have some excuse to book it back to your room.

This afternoon when you get home, he calls out to you from the bedroom. You’re almost halfway to your room but freeze there in place. You’re never rude to him, even when you want to avoid him. When he calls you, you come. When he speaks to you, you listen.

He appears in the living room, slightly out of breath as if he actually ran to catch you. That makes you feel like shit, that he thinks he needs to do that. That he’s onto you about something.

He swipes the back of his hand across his forehead, then pushes his fingers through his hair, making it stick up at funny angles.

It hurts to look at him.

He looks a lot like Bro; minus about fifteen years and with all the hate, the anger, stripped from his DNA. You try not to look at him.

“How was school?”

“It was good.” You always keep your responses short, and to the point. You can’t feel too bad about that considering he always does the same thing.

“Nice. I was a little worried about you. First days suck.”

He was worried? You don’t know what to say to that.

“For real, it was fine.”

When he starts moving towards you, you know what’s about to happen. You’ve trained yourself to stay still; to not back away the minute he closes the distance. He loops an arm around your shoulders and then your face is pressed to his chest. He’s warm and solid and smells like chemicals.

His hugs are always so weird. Sometimes you wonder if he practices them in front of a mirror.

He releases you when you start to tense up, then avoids your eyes. You’re about to start walking back to your room when he says, “I got you something. In your room.”

“Oh.”

You follow and stand behind him, hesitant, when he pushes open your bedroom door. He backs up against it and you edge around him, dumping your bag down on the floor.

It takes a while for you to notice anything amiss, given that everything in the room is unfamiliar. And then you see it. The white box on your bed, a picture of a shiny silver laptop on the front.

“I figured you could use it for school,” Dirk explains behind you. “You needed one, right? For homework and...stuff.”

You do need one. Or did. You’d lost all your shit back when they’d raided the apartment, arrested your Bro. Bro had told you there was a chance you could probably get some of it back now that he’d been sentenced, but the whole thing sounded like a logistical nightmare and anyway, you wouldn’t trust anything after it had spent that long with cops.

You turn around and look at Dirk.

“You didn’t have to do this. It’s too much.”

A small line appears between Dirk’s brows. You’ve learned he gets that when he’s thinking.

“Oh. If you don’t like this one we can take it back, swap it for a different one.”

“That’s not what I mean. This is – it’s great, honestly – but it’s a lot of money and I... I could have waited. I was fine to wait.” You need him to know that – that you don’t expect anything from him. He’s never going to have to worry about you getting too big for your boots.

Dirk shrugs a shoulder. “Now you don’t have to.” He doesn’t give you a chance to thank him. He closes your door and you sit down on the edge of your mattress, staring at the laptop box.

* * *

At eight o’clock, your phone rings. You make sure your door is shut – you never want Dirk to overhear these conversations– and wait patiently to the end of the pre-recorded message. You’ve heard it so many times now you have it memorized and can mouth along.

When the line finally connects, you get comfortable on your bed and prop the phone up against your ear, beginning the same way you always do:

“Hey. Are you okay?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for your encouragement last chapter!
> 
> BIG warning for sexism and some homophobia in this one. D:
> 
> Edit: I'm sorry about any typos and mistakes; I only ever catch them days later and it's embarrassing, lol.

You spend Tuesday through Friday getting to know John's little quirks.

He likes magic tricks, and is shit at them. If you have to spend another lunch break watching him pretend to shove pencils up his nose, you think you'll lose it.

He's nice enough that no one picks on him — or you, by extension — although he's only really close with Rose and Jade. And you now, you think. Sometimes he talks to Karkat at lunch, or in the hallways, though you can never understand why. That dude never has a nice word to say about anyone — even John, which somehow manages to offend you.

By Friday afternoon, you're tight enough with John for him to want to ask you to his house Saturday to watch movies. He corners you by your locker, before you can meet him outside where the buses wait.

"Come on, it'll be really fun," he wheedles, when you skirt around the inevitable _no_. "Rose'll be there?"

You shut your locker and shoot him a dull look. "Super."

"Jade, too."

"Oh?" Jade, you don't mind. John had hooked you two up on Pesterchum Tuesday night, and when you'd sent her some samples of your music she'd told you she liked it. You don't even think she was being a kiss-ass.

"I'll even see if Karkat wants to come."

"Please don't."

John seems to consider that for a moment, then waves his hand. "Yeah, you're right. He probably thinks he's too cool for that anyway. But come on, Dave, I want to show you my awesome, totally-not-lame movie poster collection. You can meet my cat? She's really fat. When you try to pet her she just falls right over and stays there; it's hilarious."

That makes you laugh. You still don't say yes.

It's not that you don't want to. It all sounds so wholesome to you — movies and popcorn and SunnyD; no drinking, no drugs; no pistols stuffed down the back of the futon in case things turn sour — that you almost want to say yes, just to see what that'd be like.

You imagine it like something out of Andi Mack... Which you'd definitely only watched when Bro had lost the remote control and you couldn't be bothered to get up and change the channel.

You snap the padlock closed on your locker and start walking. "Listen, I just...can't. Saturdays are out for me. I have a thing."

John hurries to catch up to you. "Oh. A complicated thing?"

"Yeah. A complicated thing."

"Okay, well why don't you just come over this afternoon?"

You glance over at him. "What?"

"Come over this afternoon. My dad'll be at work. We can eat all the food in the fridge and play Halo on the big TV."

"Okay, that does sound pretty chill."

"Right?"

When you reach the pavement outside, you join John at the back of the noisy bus queue and raise a hand to shield your eyes from the harsh sun. Even through your shades, it's blinding.

"You want to hang out with me that bad, huh."

"Uh, yes?" John says that like it's a stupid question.

"Fine, let's do it."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really."

"Yesssss." John slings an arm around your shoulders and gives you a brief squeeze.

That's another thing about John. He doles out the casual affection like it's going out of style, and you don't think you'll ever get used to him — or anyone — touching you like that. Where you come from it's just not a done thing. You let it go because you like him, and you need to fit in.

A few seconds later, John shouts, "Oi, Karkat!" and, to your relief, abruptly lets you go. Before you can ask what the hell he's doing, he's got you by the wrist, dragging you along behind him as he jogs across the road towards the student parking lot.

You spot Karkat standing beside the open driver's-side door of a silver Camry. He rolls his eyes when he sees John coming, and throws his bag down in the backseat.

"What the hell do you want?"

"Give us a ride?" John says, in the same wheedling voice he'd used to beg you to come to his house.

Karkat scoffs. "What the—? No way. Go mooch a ride off someone else, Egbert."

"There _is_ no one else. You're the only guy we know who's old enough to drive and anyway, don't you drive past my house like, every day? It's not even that far out of the way for you. You're just being a dickhole on purpose."

You tug on John's backpack and say in a low voice, "Come on, man, we'll just get the bus." Karkat briefly makes eye contact with you before his gaze flickers back to John.

"You gonna give me some gas money?"

John shoves both hands in his pockets, groans, then says, "Fine, you big tight-ass. I'll raid my piggy bank when you drop us off. We good?"

Karkat rolls his eyes again. "Whatever, just...shut up and get in. And don't talk to me."

John hops right in the front passenger seat and swiftly buckles his seatbelt. "That's cool, I know you gotta concentrate on the road and all."

"No, dipshit, I just don't wanna talk to you." Karkat slams the door shut and turns the key in the ignition.

When you're still not in the car, John twists around to look at you. "Dave," he says through the half-open window, "what are you waiting for? Get in."

"Are you sure you don't just wanna get the bus?" You give him a look you hope he interprets correctly: _don't make me do this_. It's a last-ditch attempt to spare yourself the awkward fuckery of sharing a car ride with this guy.

"Just get in," Karkat grumbles without looking at you, shifting the car into reverse, and you guess that settles it. You pull your backpack off and climb into the backseat, holding it there in your lap.

John doesn't keep to his word about not talking during the ride. He talks the entire fucking time, enough that you're surprised Karkat doesn't slam the car to a stop and tell you both to get the hell out. About ten minutes in, John pops his head over the top of the seat and says, "Hey, is everything gonna be cool with your...whoever. You know, about you coming over to mine and everything?"

"Yeah, I'll tell him. It'll be cool."

You pull your phone from your pocket and hesitate before messaging Dirk. You don't want to set a precedent of asking for his permission for things, because you don't want it to be like that between you. He'd promised you it wouldn't and anyway, he's hardly older than you. He isn't Bro.  
  
You also don't want to give him a reason to be weird with you.

Eventually, you decide on:

TG: im going to a friends house to chill  
TG: be back later

He replies pretty much straight away. Sometimes you wonder if he shits himself when he hears your message tone, he's that eager to respond to you.

TT: That's fine. Should I save you dinner?

TG: sure

TT: Thai cool?

TG: whatever

TT: I'll wait up for you.

You wish he wouldn't.

When you look up from your phone, John's saying, "Karkat, can we stop up at the 7-11? We should all get Slurpees; it's fucking scorching. I feel like my balls are sticking to my seat. Right, Dave?" He reaches down to pluck at his shorts and you nope right out of that conversation.

Karkat grumbles something about his sweaty balls staying in his fucking pants but a couple minutes later, you're pulling in at the 7-11. John unbuckles his seatbelt and says over his shoulder, "Hey, you want to get out?"

You kind of do. You might even prefer to walk the rest of the way home, even if it'd probably take you hours. And you love 7-11. Their air-con's always working and those four-dollar meal deals have saved your ass a few times.

Instead, you say, "It's cool, I'll wait," and let Karkat and John head inside alone.

Your t-shirt is sticking to your back by the time they emerge from the store, holding Slurpees and bags of chips. John opens your door first and thrusts one of the cups in your face. "Cherry okay? I wasn't sure what you liked. Probably should've asked first. Ha."

You grab it from him and take a grateful sip — it's hot as nuts today; your mouth is so dry you feel like you've been trekking through the desert — and nod your head. "S'good."

"It smells so fucking bad in here," Karkat mutters as he starts the engine.

"Heh. Maybe your nose is too close to your butt," John quips, and Karkat hits his arm but you think he might actually be laughing.  
  
By the time you finally roll to a stop at the curb outside John's house, you're looking forward to getting out of the car and stepping into the AC — you sure hope John's house has AC. But then John says, "Hey, Karkat, you want to come inside? Me and Dave are gonna play Halo if you want in," and you have to hold back a groan.

You try giving John that _look_ again, only this time you're giving it to the back of his head. You'd been semi-cool with this back when it had just been you and John. You, John and Karkat? you're not so down with.

You're sure Karkat will say no — he doesn't even seem to like John — but then he's unbuckling his seatbelt and getting out of the car and that's it; you guess this is something that's happening now.

* * *

John's house has an actual white picket fence.

The grass is green and there's a working swing-set in the spacious backyard. Inside, rows of family pictures adorn the off-white walls, a progression of John's childhood from infancy through to now. You've never visited a house that looks so lived in.

Even when you'd shared an apartment with Bro for fifteen years, half the furniture was held up by cinder blocks and most of your shit got stored in cardboard boxes. You wonder if you'd be as nice as John had you been raised in a place like this.

You're all sitting at the breakfast bar in John's massive kitchen, practically a full spread out in front of you — chips, Twizzlers and a turkey sandwich. "This is fucking awesome," you say in between bites.

John laughs, and with his mouth full says, "What, you don't have all this stuff at your house?" Going by the leisurely way he eats his own sandwich, this is a full-time kinda deal for him.

Lucky kid.

"Pff. Nah. I basically just eat whatever so I don't die."

You'd meant it as a joke, but John goes quiet and looks like he doesn't know whether to laugh or frown. "Wow, Dave, that's pretty bleak."

You shrug and keep eating, and it's not long before he changes the subject. This time, you're not listening.

You spend a few minutes watching Karkat while he's distracted by John's waffling. You think again about where you've seen him. That gets you thinking about tomorrow, and the possibility you'll cross paths there. He's barely said a word to you and yet you're under the impression you're not supposed to mention it. If you do see him, he'll probably be good to pretend you've never met.

That suits you fine.

When he catches you looking, you're ready for it. You stare at him until he grows visibly uncomfortable. When he grimaces, there's a dimple in his right cheek. It totally ruins whatever Tough Guy act he's going for. This time he doesn't ask you what the hell you're looking at, and you're satisfied when he puts his sandwich down and looks away first. It makes you feel like you've won something.

* * *

Later, when you're all sitting on John's couch — you in between Karkat and John, though the lounge is big enough for it to not be weird — John groans and slams his phone down on the armrest.

"What's up?" you say, looking away from the paused game. You weren't playing anyway, content enough right where you are with John's enormous Persian dozing in your lap. She hasn't moved at all over the last forty-five minutes. You kind of want to take her home.

"I just got rejected."

"Again?" you and Karkat say at the same time. You look at each other then quickly glance away.

This scenario appears to be a reoccurring theme in John's life. He seems to ask out, then get rejected by, a different girl each day.

John lets his head fall back against the couch, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. "What the hell is wrong with me?"

You keep your mouth shut. You're expecting Karkat to do the same when he says, "Nothing. There's nothing wrong with you. You're good, so...you'll find someone good. One day." You almost can't believe that came out of his mouth, but then you've learned to expect the unexpected when it comes to John and his friends.

"Thanks," John mumbles, like he doesn't quite believe it. He tears his hands away from his face and stares straight at you. "What do you think, Dave?"

"Huh?"

"There must be something wrong with me."

You clear your throat, then push the cat off your lap. She rolls onto the floor at your feet and stays there.

"You don't wanna ask me."

You probably shouldn't have said that.

John leans forward, mouth open, and says, "What? Hey, no, you can't just say something like that then not elaborate. That means you think there's something wrong with me. What is it? You can tell me, you know. I won't freak out. It's the teeth, isn't it?"

You'd been hoping to hold off on this one. Having John not hate your guts is in your best interest right now. But at the moment you've got two people staring at you and you'll have to say something soon. John probably deserves the truth anyway.

"You're too nice," you tell him, and John just laughs.

"What? How is that a bad thing?"

You fold your arms across your chest and shrug. "Girls kind of like it when you're an asshole."

There's silence for a good ten seconds before John says, "What? Since when?"

"Since forever." Reluctantly, you look past Karkat at him. "You're nice, right? Real nice. But sometimes when you're too nice they just think you're a sissy. Like a pushover, you know what I mean?"

You so wish he'd never asked.

John frowns and scratches at his cheek. "Right. So you're saying I should just pretend to be an asshole and more girls will like me."

"Not full asshole — never go full asshole." _At least not at the start_, you think. "But maybe, like, semi-asshole?"

Karkat chooses that moment to weigh in. "Fuck, that is the dumbest shit I've ever heard. Don't listen to him, John. Nobody likes that. Girls don't like that."

_Worked for my Bro_, you think. When you were growing up he'd always got plenty of attention from women, and while you love him he's probably the biggest asshole you know. He'd used all that attention to his benefit whenever he needed free babysitting. You used to hate him for that until you were old enough to understand how the world worked.

You guess they just don't get it.

"Hey, you asked." All of a sudden, you wish you were home.

It's good timing, because a few minutes later Karkat's announcing he has to head out, something about starting work soon.

"Oh good," John says, and already he seems to have forgotten about all the girl shit, "do you think you can take Dave home on the way? He doesn't have a ride. Right, Dave?"

"I usually just get an Uber," you mumble, which makes you wish you'd just said _no_.

"Naw, don't do that. Karkat?"

"Yeah." He's already on his feet, car keys jangling in his hand. John urges you to follow and offers you a half-hug when you're by the front door.

You're not thinking when you turn to him and blurt, "Don't listen to me."

"What?"

"Don't go even a little asshole. I kinda like you at zero asshole, you know what I'm saying?"

John grins and says, "Good, 'cause I don't even think I know how to pretend."

* * *

The fifteen or so blocks from John's house to yours pass in total silence. You speak only to give brief directions, and when Karkat pulls to a stop outside your house you practically leap out of the car with nothing but a "later".

Once you notice the truck in the driveway, you think maybe you shouldn't have been so hasty. You take your time walking up to the house, kicking at the gravel as you go.

You don't like it when Jake's around.

He's nice enough but the type to wear his heart on his sleeve, which means he's always fucking _crying_ and it's embarrassing. You're embarrassed for him.

He cries when Dirk says mean things to him. He cries when they make up. One time, he'd cried during a commercial for acne cream. He doesn't even have acne. Dirk had been so disgusted he'd left the room before you.

You know they're gay for each other but at least Dirk has the sense to act like a man. To you he seems irritated by Jake's emotions, and he's only ever careless with his own when it comes to you.

Sometimes you wonder if that bothers Jake; if he resents you for being around, for taking Dirk's attention away from him. If it's true he doesn't show it, but then you think if he did that Dirk might throw him out and not think twice.

You try not to feel anything about that.

When you push open the door, you smell the food straight away. You'd stuffed yourself back at John's house — it'd be so easy to bypass the kitchen and go straight to bed comfortable — but Dirk's gone out of his way for you. The least you can do is spend five minutes with him.

When you enter the kitchen, they spring apart at the sight of you. It's only more awkward when they do that. It's not like you don't know they touch each other when you're not looking.

"You're home," Dirk says. You force a small smile, just for him, then drop your bag and hoist yourself up on one of the stools.

Jake's still in his high-vis gear from work. When he leans over the bench to give you a smile that looks a little pinched, he smells like dirt and sweat. "So how are you, Dave? Big week, eh?" You stare at him until that smile starts to turn painful. He throws Dirk a look you think might say _help me_ but gets nothing in return.

You watch as Dirk reaches for a plate and starts piling on food from an array of take-out containers. He passes it to Jake and says, "Give that to my brother."

You don't understand why he does that, why he can't just call you Dave.

He has to tell everyone he's your brother.

The waitress at the diner he likes. The girl scanning your shit at Target. The pharmacist filling your prescription at the Walgreens.

If someone looks at you, it's always: '_Oh, that's Dave. He's my brother_.'

'_Can we get another order of fries? My brother likes them_.'

'_Do you have these shoes in a different size? They're for my brother_.'

It makes your head spin.

They both sit opposite you while you eat, and it makes you want to squirm out of your own skin. Bro had only given you this much direct attention when you were in trouble. When you were being ignored, that meant things were okay between you. With the bright lamp dangling from the ceiling above your head, you feel like you're under interrogation.

"How was it at your friend's house?" Dirk asks, when you've started pushing food around on your plate.

"It was good. Fine."

"That's great. I'm glad you're making friends."

"Yeah."

Jake makes some excuse to get something from his truck, and when he disappears you're so relieved you feel all the muscles in your arms and back relax. You hope he stays gone because when he looks at you too long you want to snap, ask him why the fuck you're so interesting.

You can deal with it when it's Dirk. Only when it's Dirk.

It's quiet for the next few minutes while you eat, and Dirk sips on his beer. You guess Jake brought that for him. He's not even old enough to buy it. 

Then, Dirk says, "You're seeing him tomorrow." It's not a question.

"Yes."

Dirk nods and taps his fingers against the bench. "Do you need money?"

You put your fork down and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. "Listen, you don't have to give me money." Your own account is dwindling by the day, but you hate taking Dirk's money. You won't take advantage of him, owe him any more than you already do.

"I know that. I asked if you need it." When you don't answer, he quietly says, "I'll send you some money."

You push your plate away and announce, "I'm going to bed."

"Oh. Okay." He gets to his feet just to watch you leave. "Goodnight?" he calls after you.

You don't look back at him when you say, "Yeah. Night."

You close your bedroom door and pull your shoes and socks off, collapsing on top of your unmade bed, fully-clothed. You put your headphones on and dial the music all the way up to max, until the force of the bass sends shockwaves to your eardrums that border on painful. You don't want to hear Dirk and Jake — their arguing, or anything else they might be doing.

You rest your phone on the pillow near your face and wait for it to light up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! <3


	3. Chapter 3

When you enter the waiting area, Karkat's already there.

It's necessary to pass his chair on the way to the front desk to sign yourself in, and when you do he pretends he hasn't seen you, just tucks his chin and lifts his book so that it partially covers his face.

You're making your way back to where you usually sit, all the way on the opposite side of the room — the further away from everyone else the better; the entire place reeks of B.O. and unwashed ass — when you steer off course and drop right down in the chair next to him. It must be the defiant streak in you. If he's going to ignore you, you want to make that impossible.

He continues with the act, makes out like he's reading but his eyes aren't moving. You think about poking him but that might be a good way to start a fight — if you get kicked out of here and don't show up for Bro today there's a chance he might not forgive you. In the end you bide your time, let the awkward silence stretch, then snatch the book from his hands. He yells in protest but you ignore it.

"What's this?" You lean out of reach and flip the cover of the book over so you can see it. "We'll Always Have Tomorrow," you read out loud, then flip it again to read the blurb. "_It's been two years since Conrad told Belly to go with Jeremiah. Does she really have a future with Jeremiah? Has she ever gotten over Conrad?_" You pause and give him a judgy look over the rim of your shades. He glares back at you, lips pressed tightly together like his face is about to pop. His skin flushes dark pink underneath. 

"Love triangle. Sounds like a page-turner."

"Fuck you," he mutters. He snatches the book back, clutching it to his chest.

You want to ask why he's reading something like that in public but then he's saying, "Jade was right about you, you know. You _are_ an insufferable douche."

"What? She didn't say that." You blow it off with a careless shrug.

"You're right. I think her exact words were 'that new guy is really up his own ass'".

You don't have a comeback for that. If it's true, you suppose you misread the hell out of that situation. Your last conversation you'd poked some fun at her about what makes one a furry/not a furry. You weren't trying to be a dick on purpose but you guess she doesn't get your play.

If there's one thing you're not, it's up your own ass. You hate guys that are up their own ass. Why does she think you're up your own ass?

"I so don't get it. You and John," Karkat says, shattering your train of thought. When you look at him, he's staring straight ahead. A muscle twitches in his jaw and you guess he's pretty worked up to be bringing Jade and John into this, trying to get under your skin.

"What about me and John?" It comes out louder than you wanted it to. A toddler girl bouncing on her mother's knee across from you and Karkat stops whining and stares at you, sucking her thumb.

"He's actually nice. Not fake nice — nice."

He's calling _you_ fake nice, like he thinks you're fake friending with John or something. It's not like it matters but you don't have to sit and listen to this. 

"Man, shut your mouth. You don't even know me." You stretch and get to your feet. He says to your back, in a voice that makes you want to punch him, "Yeah, okay. Bye, _Dave_."

You take a seat on the opposite side of the room, fold your arms across your chest. You can't see the TV from here but college football is boring and you're better off by yourself. It's ten past eleven when one of the guards announces it's time for line-up and processing. This is all routine by now and yet you still dread it — the reality of having frustrated strangers put their hands all over you each week. Some days the thought makes you queasy.

It's not long before you forget all about Karkat and his fake nice bullshit. 

You're not surprised when you're pulled out of the line for a pat-down. It's always you, and you know why. You come prepared. You step outside the queue with your arms at your sides, ready to have your personal space well and truly violated, when the lady guard barks at you to stand with your legs further apart. She seems a little mad today. When she huffs and jerks on your arm to get you to lift it, it hurts you enough that it feels personal.

You keep your mouth shut, though. Talking back to power-trippers never did anyone any favors. 

Besides, maybe she's like that with everyone. Lots of the guards here are assholes. Maybe she just doesn't like your face. Or maybe she knows exactly who you are because of Bro. Maybe he's been acting out, doing things in here to attract the wrong kind of attention. That makes you worry. Now that he's here, you do that a lot. 

He tells you you don't have to. On some level, you know that. He's smart. He's stronger than anyone you've ever known, and he isn't afraid of anything. You know he can take care of himself in here, no matter how bad things get. But you've spent your entire life getting to know him. Sometimes you worry he'll fit in here so well you'll never get him back again.

You grit your teeth when the guard — you look at her nametag; it says _Mary_ — barks at you to stand still, starts patting down your legs. You stare at her tightly pulled-back hair as she rubs her palms up and down your thighs. You can never get through this part without an inward shudder but at least it's not one of the dude guards this time.

The whole ordeal goes for longer than normal. It makes you suspicious that maybe she's searching for any excuse to send you home. If she is, she won't find one unless you open your mouth and give it to her. You're meticulous about everything down to the oversized clothes you wear. The prison has a dress-code that borders on ridiculous — your first visit you'd witnessed a woman being sent home because her t-shirt was too tight. Ever since then you've worn baggy sweats and any old t-shirt Dirk has lying around.

When she's done, you just give her a, "'Sup." She scowls at that and shoos you back to the end of the line, shoving you by the center of your back. You find yourself wondering if Karkat saw any of that and the thought makes you irrationally pissed off.

They let you into the visiting area one by one. When it's finally your turn, one of the supervising guards is already well into his rehearsed speech about physical contact — all you're allowed is a brief hug and kiss, with each to last no longer than two seconds. No long hugs. No open-mouthed kisses. No touching at all outside of holding hands. Anyone gets caught being handsy and that's it — visit terminated, right there on the spot, no exceptions. You've seen it happen. 

None of those rules actually apply to you and yet it still strikes you as overly stingy. A lot of the people here are couples and haven't seen each other for weeks. 

You scan the room for your Bro — it's depressing as ever in here; grey brick, metal tables and chairs all bolted down to the concrete; a couple shitty vending machines in the corner, and that's always fifty-fifty on whether or not they're even working — and spot him sitting in the far-left corner of the room. 

Everyone around you is standing, hugging, crying, kissing, laughing. Being unashamedly human. Bro likes to flex on everyone with how controlled he is. He doesn't come to you; doesn't even stand, just waits for you to come to him. You suppress the overwhelming urge to run to him. You want to; you really do, but your lack of self-control would only disappoint him. You don't want that to set the tone for the rest of the visit and so you walk to him — calm, dignified — and try not to look too excited. 

You slide onto the metal stool across from him. You hate these chairs. They're so hard and uncomfortable, almost like they were designed to be yet another extension of Bro's punishment, and you always go home with your ass hurting. 

"Hey."

He watches you for a few seconds, taking you in. "'Sup, little man."

You lean your forearms on the table. All you get in the way of physical contact from him is the back of his hand brushing yours when he does the same and leans forward slightly, probably so you can talk without being overheard. It's not like it matters. Everyone's too busy with their own shit but Bro's extra serious about privacy.

You're taking him in too, though you try not to make it weird. When it's clear there's nothing wrong with him — no change in his appearance; no outward sign of injury; none of the things you dread every single night, anticipating when you'll see him next just so you can know for sure — you physically relax, like you've been holding your breath in all week long.

He looks good. Strong, healthy. The starched orange uniform makes him look a little pale but you can tell he's fine, holding his own in here.

He opens with, "You're skinny." 

"I know. I eat." You're quick to answer but don't get defensive.

"So eat more."

"Yeah. I mean, I will. Yeah." You clear your throat and fold your arms in front of you.

He studies you in that way that makes your skin prickle, like he can see right through you so you better not be hiding shit. You're not. If he wants to know something, all he has to do is ask. 

But he won't. He's not asking and so it's up to you to do the talking, tell him everything, even though you know he wants to see you. He must have been looking forward to it all week. He calls you every night — he's got to miss you. Sometimes you just wish he'd take the stick out of his ass for five minutes and show you that.

You know why he can't, even if he wanted to. He doesn't want to look weak. He doesn't want anyone else, especially not in here, looking at him and thinking he's weak. You don't hold it against him.

"I started school?"

He leans further forward, a good indication he's interested and wants to hear more. He scrubs a hand across his face. "Yeah. Bumfuck nowhere, right?"

You shrug. "Pearland. I dunno, it's bigger than I thought it was gonna be. Shittier, too." It's not, actually, but you don't want him to think you've gotten too comfortable. That you won't be ready to up and leave with him should the universe shit out a miracle and let him out of here early on good behavior.

He waits for you to elaborate. It's easy for you to babble, give him more than what he asked for.

"It's basically like every dumb high school movie put together only it's the first half an hour where nothing interesting ever happens."

"Nothing?"

You scratch at the metal table with your thumbnail. "There's a fuckton of cows and birds and shit. Oh, and there's this one old dude who walks around town in denim cutoffs and red cowboy boots. I guess that's pretty awesome."

You're not sure why you left out John. John's kind of interesting in his own way. You should tell him about John.

"I met this kid at school."

When Bro doesn't say anything, you keep going.

"He's basically fucking Charlie Bucket from Washington, right, only his dad's loaded or something. Kid's way too nice to even be real, you know what I'm saying? Like Hot Topic threw up all over Bambi. I never met anyone like that back in..." You don't finish the rest of that sentence, because you're paying careful attention to Bro's face, his body language, as you speak. It gives you the impression he doesn't like where this is going. The man doesn't do 'friends' and you know he's not super enthused about the idea of you having them either.

You stuff your hands in your pockets and feel around for your loose change. "Anyway, I'm gonna hit the candy machine. You want anything?" You already know the answer to this but he didn't raise you to be a disrespectful shit.

You always bring the money just in case but he's so fucking controlled he won't even eat junk. You know some of these guys wait the whole week just to hit those vending machines. They must look at Bro with his water and steel resolve and wonder if he's even human. It's not like you've never wondered the same thing.

You don't make eye contact with anyone on your way over. The last thing you need is for one of these dudes to ask what the fuck you're looking at only for Bro to come charging over to beat their ass. So far, neither of you have done anything to threaten his visiting privileges and you want to keep it that way.

You're close enough to touch the machines before you realize who's in front of you. Karkat smacks the side of the unit, cussing under his breath. He rolls his eyes when he looks over his shoulder and spots you. 

"What happened? He tell you your ass looks big in those jeans?"

"What? Ugh, shut up, it just swallowed my coins." He turns away from you and bats at the machine again. 

"Yeah. It does that."

When he gives up and steps aside, you move in and give the bottom of the thing a swift kick. It makes a straining, clunking noise and a few seconds later a bottle of Pepsi pops out of the chute. Karkat turns to you with a stunned look and you shrug. You're definitely not about to tell him that was a massive coincidence and not some magic fix known only to you. No way — you look way too effortlessly cool right now.

When you return to yours and Bro's table, he stops you before you sit down.

"Sit by me." He slides across to the stool beside him, making room for you at his side. 

You're not thrown.

"Oh. Yeah, okay." You sit down and pass him a water, twisting open the cap on your own and taking a hurried gulp. The back of your neck is sweating. You're kind of in the mood for Doritos but there's no way you're going to eat in front of him. The bus ride back takes forever and so you guess you'll be waiting a while to eat.

He rests his elbows on the table, his bicep pressed to yours. You lean a little into him just because, close enough you can smell the prison-issue soap. From the corner of your eye, you watch him scan the room. After a short stretch of silence, he says, "Who's that?"

"Hm?" 

With a subtle jerk of his head, he directs your attention to the opposite side of the room, where Karkat and someone you presume is his dad are sitting, huddled close together, gripping each other's hands. You take a few seconds to observe their situation. 

They're deep in conversation, heads bowed, the older man touching Karkat's face every now and then. His face is deeply lined and he's covered in so many tattoos — his arms, face and neck — that you can't even count them. Still, the general theme is familiar to you on account of the company Bro used to keep. You don't know why you're so surprised that dude is Karkat's dad. 

You remember what Bro asked and the lie just slips out. "I dunno. Some kid from the waiting room. He seems like a douche."

Karkat must sense he's being stared at because he briefly catches your eye. You're grateful when he doesn't do anything to give away the fact you're better acquainted than you let on. Because you lied. You don't know why but if you backtrack now you'll only make things worse for yourself.

Bro mutters something under his breath in Spanish. You're nowhere close to fluent but you're pretty sure it's something mocking and racially specific. Karkat furrows his brow and glances away. 

Bro must accept your answer anyway because he changes the subject. Tugging on the oversized sleeve of your t-shirt, he says, "Houston Texans. Nice shirt." It's his way of asking to whom it belongs, because it's clearly not yours. 

You look down at it and frown. You'd borrowed it from Dirk without much thought. Now that you think about it, it can't possibly be his. Dirk doesn't even like football. That means it's probably Jake's and suddenly you want to throw it off. 

But you need to act cool. 

"Yeah, I had to snatch it from Dirk 'cause all my clothes actually fit me. They don't like that. The C.O's, I mean. I saw some girl get sent home the other week 'cause one of the guards said they could see her nipples. They give me the pat-down prize every single week so it's not like I'm takin' any chances."

"They fuck with you," Bro drawls, his tone measured but you sense the underlying irritation. He'll take them singling you out as a personal insult and that could get dangerous.

You shrug, like it doesn't bother you. "It's whatever. I can deal with it. Anyway," you say, steering away from that topic, "everyone out there's obsessed with football and fucking IHOP. It's so midwest. Dirk's not like the locals, though, so he's cool. But—" You catch yourself the second before you mention Jake.

Bro doesn't know about Jake. If he knew about Jake, he'd flip his shit for sure. You can predict him raging about how it's bad enough you share a roof with one queer, never mind two.

He's got zero time for Dirk and so it's probably just a coincidence when he says, "I don't want you gettin' too close to him, Dave. Kid's a faggot."

Your lips feel kind of numb. You manage to force out a steady, "Yeah, I know. I won't," then try not to feel too guilty for talking shit about Dirk. It's not like he can hear you and anyway, what Bro said is true. It's probably best you don't get too close. You know Dirk wants nothing more than to be close with you — it's smothering sometimes — but you're way too different.

"It's me and you, kid," he reminds you once you've fallen quiet. He nudges your arm in a way you interpret as affectionate. "It's always gonna be me and you." 

You spend the rest of the visit talking about Bro's upcoming appeal. It's hard to feel encouraged by the fact that, according to him, even on the off-chance it's successful he's only looking at a miniscule reduction in sentencing. You wonder why he's even bothering with it at all but then it's not as if he's hard-pressed for time in here. And that makes you feel like shit. You wish there was something you could do to make this easier on him. 

When you part it's with a promise to see him the following weekend, and another to put more money into his commissary. You'll probably need a job first but you'll have to save that talk for next time. 

He briefly puts his arm around you before you leave — a kind of awkward, stiff, half-hug. He's not good at it but you welcome it because it's something. 

Maybe he's going soft on you.

* * *

You're sitting outside the prison gates at the bus shelter, draining the last dregs of your water, when someone calls your name. When you get up to look around, you're suprised to see Karkat half-jogging towards you. You break off from the rest of the crowd waiting for the bus to meet him halfway. 

"What?"

For a minute he doesn't say anything, just bites at his thumbnail like he's thinking, or stalling for time. A few damp curls stick to his forehead and he's slightly out of breath. You've got no idea what he's doing following you out here in the afternoon heat, and by the looks of things neither does he. He's made it clear he doesn't like you and you know he has a car. He should be halfway back to Pearland by now. 

"What?" you say again.

His cheeks are flushed. It's probably the heat but you'd prefer to think he's embarrassed. 

Finally, he says, "So, Mr. White Power in there's your dad, huh?"

You're momentarily lost for words but quickly recover. Right. He followed you out here to start a fight. Kind of unexpected but you get where this is going now. You take a step forward and he takes one back. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He snorts and gives you a look like you're playing dumb on purpose.

"That's my brother. But hey, you wanna shit all over each other's dads, let's talk about yours, Mr. MS-13."

Karkat splutters out a laugh, like he can't believe your nerve. "God, you are such a dick."

"You started it," you point out. "Don't start no shit, won't be no shit."

Karkat sweeps you with a look of disbelief. "_What_?" He huffs a laugh. "You sound like a little street rat, you know that? I knew there was something off about you when I first saw you with John. I know you've got him thinking you're his new best friend or whatever but I don't buy it. He'll see through it, you know, just give him time."

You take another step forward and this time he doesn't move, just stares back at you all defiant, like he's daring you to do something. You pointedly ignore the stuff about John and say, "How 'bout you talk about my brother again and I'll break your nose?"

He regards you with a smug look that isn't helping to de-escalate the situation.

You stare each other down for a few more seconds before he says, "Whatever. You know, I probably would've given you a ride home if you weren't such an asshole. See you round, _Dave_."

You kick a few loose pebbles accross the ground and try not to feel stupid as you watch him stalk away.


End file.
